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•==TWO==i 

VILLAGES 


LOUISA BRANNAN 



NEW YORK: 

EVERY WHERE PUBLISHING CO. 


A ^ 

-$>V< 


Copyright, 1911 

BY 

Every Where Publishing Company. 


©Cl, A 30 0856 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Newcastle 

The Minister ...... 2 

The Doctor ...... 4 

The Merchant 7 

The Dressmaker . . . . . 10 

The Minister's Wife . . .13 

Elphaz, The Wise Man . . . . 17 

The Bad Boy .19 

Coverta 

The Forester ...... 27 

The Nurse ....... 31 

The Civil Engineer ..... 35 

Doctor Deleplane 38 

The School-Teacher ..... 42 

The Dootor’s Daughter . . . . .43 

The Miner’s Wife ..... 50 



% 



NEWCASTLE. 


p 


TWO VILLAGES 


NEWCASTLE. 

I T was a quaint old-fashioned place with one busi- 
ness street. The town hall, built of red brick, 
was alone, modern, substantial, imposing. There 
stood the general store, long, low, rambling, weather- 
beaten; the blacksmith shop; the restaurant. 

Just back a little way, and across from the hall, 
stood the church — white, green-shuttered, sleeping 
among the elm-trees. Quite far up on the hillside, lay 
the city of the dead, silent, lonely, sacred. 

When I recall the village and its people, I feel thank- 
ful for the lessons they have taught me — lessons of 
life, of love, of human sympathy, of helpfulness, of 
trust. 


TWO VILLAGES. 


I. 


THE MINISTER. 


HE Rev. Asa Adams was a tall, stalwart, broad- 



shouldered, magnetic man. Although past 


forty, he had a boyish face, and the heart of 
a child. Seven winsome children graced his home. 
His sermons, while they contained the essential ele- 
ments of theology, were heart-searching, sympathetic. 
He felt the spiritual and moral pulse of his congrega- 
tion. He understood the people, for he had lived their 
lives with them and held heart-to-heart communion with 
each man, woman and child in the congregation. This 
energetic, keen-eyed, soulful man went about among 
the people of Newcastle. 

The minister was a natural nurse. Morning after 
morning found him returning after a night’s vigil with 
a sick man, or an ailing child. He coaxed the children 
to take the doctor’s bitter draughts, for the children 
all loved him. The pastor buried the dead and mourned 
with his congregation. In the few social events he was 
in their midst, boyish, mirthful. He was a friend, true 
and loyal, fearless of speech in the cause of friend- 
ship and right. The Rev. Asa Adams was a friend 


2 


THE MINISTER. 

who brought out the best in every one he met. It 
seemed quite impossible for one to be mean or low in 
his presence, yet he neither preached or scolded. He 
simply lived as a man should live, and thought as a 
man should think. 



3 


TWO VILLAGES. 


II. 

THE DOCTOR. 

T HE doctor was just coming from the store, where 
he had purchased some smoking tobacco, some 
raisins, and two pounds of bacon, for one of 
his patients on the Millsborough road. 

He was about to untie his tall, yellow horse, when 
he was interrupted by Van Auld, the storekeeper. 

“I say, Doc, could you go a little out of your way, 
a mile or so, to deliver this message? You get twenty 
cents for it.” 

‘‘Twenty cents be hanged,” said Dr. Styles. “No, I 
don't go.” 

“You've got to. I can’t get a man, woman or child in 
Newcastle to go. It is to old Squire Dugall, and his 
daughter is dying.” 

“All right, Van Auld; I guess I can go, but I’ll be 
hanged if I stir an inch until I get the twenty cents. 
Hurry up, Cinnamon! We’ll have to hurry up, old girl. 
I don't see why I've got to be bothered with old Squire 
Dugall's daughter. I've nothing to do with her dying. 
Poor Squire! the last one, the last one! He’s buried 
six. Get up, Cinnamon! We must be there in time. 
4 


THE DOCTOR. 


The Squire will have to take the train at Gabon, poor 
man.” 

The doctor delivered his message and rode on. Then 
he stopped at a little tumbledown house. The good 
man sighed as he entered without knocking, but his 
face brightened at the cheery aspect of the room. “Ah, 
good-morning, Mrs. Good. I’m glad to see you looking 
so fresh. Who’s been here to see you, fairies, eh?” 

“Yes, doctor, if you call Miss Amy Beech a fairy. 
She rode out with the milkman this morning, and tidied 
and cheered me up. She had to go back early to 
finish some sewing. It does seem strange that such 
a busy woman would find so much time to spend on 
others.” 

“Yes, and what beats me,” said the doctor, “is how 
a woman can be so hard worked and be so confounded 
beautiful. Why, many a princess would give her king- 
dom for her face and figure. 

“If it wasn’t for her and the minister, I don’t know 
what I would do. They do most of the nursing about 
these parts. However, there is one thing they can’t 
help me do, and that is to pull teeth. 

“Now, I don’t mind sawing off a man’s arm, not a 
bit; but as to extracting teeth, that is one oJf a country 
doctor’s trials. You just ask any of them.” 

“I suppose you know, doctor, that Granny Stone is 
dead?” 

“Shu, now, I didn’t know it.” 

“Yes, Miss Amy laid her out yesterday.” 

5 


TWO VILLAGES. 


“Well, well; I’m glad Miss Amy was there. She 
beats a good many undertakers I know. Queer now, 
isn’t it, that we always associate Miss Amy Beech with 
dead people, and she so jolly-like, isn’t it? Well, I 
must be going! I’ve got to call at Epsom’s; I hate such 
places. I never know whether the pigs have gotten 
into the house, or the family strayed into the hog-pen.” 

The doctor’s calls were soon over. He talked much 
and fast, this busy little man. He was a small, short, 
round man, with a round face, rosy cheeks and smiling 
lips. He had little sunshine in his life. He had to 
have it in his heart. Riding homeward he mused: “I’m 
tired of this life. Sometimes I want to break away 
from* it all. They say I’m a fool for wasting my tal- 
ents here. Maybe I am, but I can’t leave. I love them 
iso. Thej old people, the young people who welcomed 
me when I first came here, the young people now, and 
the little children that I helped rob the stork’s nest for 
— I love them all. And Miss Amy! Well, I’m a lonely 
bachelor; never wanted any bride but my profession. 
And she’s more like a saint than a woman. Somehow 
it would be a sacrilege for just a common man to love 
her.” 


6 


THE MERCHANT . 


III. 

THE, MERCHANT. 

T HE only store at Newcastle was a great wooden 
structure, with four large glass front windows. 
A partition ran through the center almost the 
length of the building. The two sides were connected 
at the back by a wide passageway. In this space were 
stored the groceries, with just a little corner devoted to 
drugs. In one side of the building were arranged the 
drygoods and notions, with one window reserved for 
the public library — small, but exceedingly well selected 
— yet a little place was stacked with shoes and men’s 
clothing. In the other side of the building were stored 
hardware, large bins of coal, and merchandise of vari- 
ous kinds. Even the meat-market was not for- 
gotten. 

The great cellar was filled with all kinds of vege- 
tables, and in the attic a small printing-press was 
set in motion. 

Van Auld, the proprietor of this concern, was a small, 
dark man, energetic, enterprising, resourceful. Here 
was a genius as great as any that ever ruled the oil 
market, or schemed his way to victory in the wheat 
7 


TWO VILLAGES . 


pit. Rockefeller might have failed in Newcastle; Van 
Auld would in all probability have failed in the oil 
world. The Chicago financier dealt with corporations. 
Van Auld controlled individuals and moulded their 
careers to his own financial welfare. This man, hand- 
some of face, kind in manner, suave in disposition, 
was the despot of Newcastle. He fed, clothed and 
warmed the people. He was their banker as well as 
their grocer. 

From time to time his large iron safe held the savings 
of scores of his customers. They came to him with 
their difficulties, for he was justice of the peace. Never 
was a learned judge more wise and politic than he. 
He tempered his justice with mercy, and no one ever 
came to him in trouble, but he could tell them a way 
to avoid it. He was the guardian of the people. With- 
out his support they would have been like little chil- 
dren. As it was, in spite of theif ignorance and love 
of ease, they were in the main a self-supporting people. 
Van Auld was a true Democrat. No soul coming to 
him in ignorance or distress ever found him false, 
but woe to the corporation with which he was dealing! 
Numerous were the ways in which he outwitted them 
— cheated them — with methods wily, versatile, smooth 
as oil and hard of detection. He was never found 
out, but day by day grew richer, sleeker and more idol- 
ized by the people of Newcastle. 

Although a married man, he was childless; but all 
the children of the village loved him like a father. 


THE MERCHANT 


He played with them, settled their childish quarrels, 
and gave them their first lessons in finance. 

It was in the debating-society that he showed especial 
ability. There was not a boy in the village but wished 
him for a colleague, and every one feared him as an 
opponent. In hard and knotty questions — in those rare 
instances when Elphaz, the wise man, pitted his 
intellectual strength against his — did the merchant in 
any measure find his equal. 



9 


TWO VILLAGES. 


IV. 

THE DRESSMAKER. 

you have my dress done by Friday, Miss 
Beech?” said Mrs. Darnsbrough, the stylish 
woman of the village. 

“Yes, I guess so, I have only one dress to finish; but 
you know, old Mrs. Moss is sick, and she takes quite a 
bit of my time. I never sew much in the evening any 
more. The children come in once in a while to get 
help on their doll-clothes.” 

“Amy, why do you bother with them? You have 
enough to do without.” 

“They are my recreation, you know.” 

“Don’t you ever read any, Miss Beech? You should 
try to cultivate your mind. You owe that much to 
society.” 

“Well, really, Mrs. Darnsbrough, I haven’t any mind 
to cultivate any more. It has been taken up with dol- 
lars and cents and the latest styles so long. I really 
think a dressmaker gets very frivolous.” 

“Well, Miss Beech, good dressing tends to self- 
respect. Somehow I feel I amount to nothing unless 
well dressed. I know they say I’m vain, Miss Beech, 
10 


THE DRESSMAKER . 


but you know ever since Alice died I’ve just had to 
dress. You know how vain and foolish I am, Miss 
Beech.” 

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Darnsbrough, I know all about it. I 
don’t care anything about dress, although I used to, bur 
I never could afford it, so I got over wanting to dress. 
You know, mother died when I was seventeen, and the 
younger children had so many wants, I couldn’t then. 
When Matilda grew up a little, I learned dressmaking, 
and I thought things would be better. One by one they 
all had consumption and died. There was just Matilda 
and I left. Father had gone first, after that the other 
three. Then there were the funeral expenses. Matilda 
soon followed the others. I’ve paid her funeral ex- 
penses and this little house will pay mine. Oh, Mrs. 
Darnsbrough, I’ve never told any one before, but I 
shall go like the rest. That little cough of mine fright- 
ens me. Oh, my beauty, it is all I ever had in the world 
that I wanted. Work or sorrow does not spoil it, but 
sickness will.” 

“Were you ever in love, M'iss Beech? I know you 
must have a great many admirers. Why don’t you 
marry, now? You are only thirty-eight.” 

“Oh, love! that is not for me. I never had any 
time to love, and I have a very cold heart anyway. 
Good-by. Yes, I’ll have your dress done.” 

“Oh, Amy Beech, never had time to love? How 
could you tell her that? You talk about being cold- 
hearted, even while love consumes your heart. You 
11 


TWO VILLAGES. 


know, Amy Beech, you’ve been in love these ten years 
with Dr. Styles. Oh, well! it has never killed me yet, 
and I guess I can go on living just the same.” 

That evening Dr. Styles was aroused from a fireside 
nap by neighbors, who had found Miss Amy asleep in 
her chair. The warm heart had stopped beating. They 
could not awaken her. Death had not robbed her of 
her charms. They laid her away. So many missed 
her — the sick she had nursed, the down-hearted she 
had cheered, the lonely little children she had loved — 
all missed her; but none so much as one who in 
anguish of heart spoke to the minister. 

“Oh, Adams! to think she never knew it. It would 
comfort me now if I had told her that I loved her. 
She and you were the only perfect ones.” 

“Perfect, Styles! don’t call me perfect. There are 
times when I forget my God. It is such a temptation 
to me — there is none like unto it — to stir the emotions 
of the human heart, to make my audience laugh or 
weep at will. It is at times like these, when the minis- 
ter is lost in the actor, that I forget my God and my 
sacred calling.” 

“I’ve seen you when you were like this, Adams.” 

“And Styles, whom did you see? The Christ?” 

“No, no, I saw the Rev. Asa Adams.” 

“You are a wise man, doctor, and I guess you under- 
stand everybody but yourself.” 


12 


THE MINISTER’S WIFE. 


V. 

THE MINISTER’S WIFE. 

44 A BEAUTIFUL soul has ascended to the 
Mlaker. A rare flower has left the earth 
to blossom in Paradise,” said Mrs. Adams 
as she took off her hat and gloves. She had just re- 
turned from Miss Beech’s funeral and Mrs. Darnsbrough 
had stopped to have a cup off tea. 

“Mrs. Adams, she was just lovely, too good for this 
town.” 

“Yes, Mrs. Darnsbrough, what a world of good she 
did! She didn’t have much education, yet in spite of 
that fact she was a very intelligent woman.” 

“How can you bear it here, Mrs. Adams? I hear 
your folks are well-to-do, that you moved in the most 
exclusive set in Boston.” 

“It is this way: I got a little democracy in College. 
Take a lot of girls together and they will generally cure 
each other of their little snobbish ways. Of course 
along with my democracy I absorbed some very un- 
practical notions also. When we first came here we 
had mothers’ meetings, and what foolish, unpractical 
things they were! Those little talks about how the 
children should be fed and how to dress them properly, 
13 


TWO VILLAGES. 


and all that. I soon found it better to help fashion a 
little skirt for baby out of Bessie’s outgrown one, and 
teach the mother how to make a nourishing meal out 
of the little flour and one egg in the pantry. Many 
a time I have lain awake at night thinking out such 
problems as how to make a rug out of Widow Smith's 
old carpet, and how to make a dress for little Ellen 
out of her mother’s old plaid shawl. There was an- 
other idea I had. It was about admonishing the boys 
and girls to get an education. Now, there is Mary 
Tillman with an invalid mother, a drunken father and 
three little brothers. How can she attend school? I 
just loan her a book once in a while and try to give 
her little practical talks. She is half-way satisfied with 
her lot, and I don’t want to make her otherwise. There 
is Tom Wells working hard to support his mother and 
little sisters. Asa helps him with his studies, and I 
keep still, though I would like to see him go to school. 

“Life is so different — real life, I mean — from what it 
seemed at college. I can’t think off those spreads, we 
used to have, without tears in my eyes. I wish the 
world was as easily put in harmony as we girls used 
to think it. Sometimes, Mrs. Darnsbrough, it seems 
that a dollar is so large; and it gets larger, and larger, 
until it blots out the sun. It’s pinch at home until I’m 
dead tired and sick of life. Then I go out among the 
people, and everywhere I see suffering, and all because 
of the want of a dollar. Asa says money doesn’t make 
happiness, but I’m afraid it does.” 

14 


THE MINISTER’S WIFE . 


“It helps, Mrs. Adams, but your husband is right. 
Our minister is almost always right. You see this 
gown, a Paris one; out of place in Newcastle, I know, 
but I wear it to make me happy. Somehow it does a 
little, but how little! If I could only see it soiled by 
little fingers or ruined by little muddy shoes, how happy 
I would be ! Over there in the churchyard lies my hus- 
band, and there our only child. When Robert died I 
prayed, ‘O God, Thy will be done!’ Since Alice went I 
never pray.” 

“Maybe if you would change your residence you 
would feel better.” 

“No, I must stay here where I can go to see them 
every day, stay here until I die of grief. Yet I’ve 
never wanted for money, Mrs. Adams. I’ve had all 
the money I ever wanted. I will not say it hasn’t helped 
me/ to bear my trials, for it has helped me; yet as you 
look at your sleeping children to-night, be glad and 
happy.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Darnsbrough, I wish I could help you. I 
wish that I could show; you the way. I can only pray 
for you, maybe some time you can pray for yourself.” 

That night after the children were sleeping and the 
minister had not yet come in for the night, Mrs. Adams 
sat by the fire thinking of Mrs. Darnsbrough. “Oh, 
if her warm mother heart could be turned toward some 
motherless child — some needy child — could she but for- 
get her jewels and her Paris gowns, that look so ridicu- 
lous here; could she be less selfish in her grief, what a 
15 


TWO VILLAGES. 


blessing she could be! If some one could show her 
the way! I can’t. I don’t know how to do it. Oh, 
that I had the wisdom of Elphaz, that I might!” 

A familiar step sounded on the porch, and with a 
glad light in her eyes, the minister’s wife sprang to her 
feet. As her lips touched those of her husband, it 
was no formal greeting. As she looked into the manly 
face and thought of her sleeping children, she felt glad 
and thankful to be the wife of this noble and pure man. 
She felt glad that she could work by his side, though 
oft discouraged, sick, and scarce able to bear the load, 
all too heavy for her frail strength. 

This woman, reared in luxury, above the average 
woman in intelligence, refinement and culture, viva- 
cious, entertaining, who could have graced a palatial 
home, was content — yes, more than content — she was 
blissfully happy. 



16 


ELPHAZ, THE WISE MAN . 


VI. 

ELPHAZ, THE WISE MAN. 

T HE little grey-haired man, stoop-shouldered from 
bending over his books, was trying to solve 
some electrical problem. He was always try- 
ing to solve some problem, and had gained for him- 
self the name of Elphaz, the wise man. He was aware 
of a presence in the room, and as he turned his head 
he was greeted by a hoarse chuckle from the bad boy 
of the village. He turned abruptly in his chair with 
the remark, “Come Sydney, I've got to have some help 
with my machine. You are the only boy around that I 
can trust with my precious wires and chemicals. I 
wouldn't trust their awkward fingers, besides they are 
a pack of cowards; every one of them would bawl 
like babies at a burn or shock." 

“Well, yes, I’ll help, Elphaz; I don't care for a little 
burn. I guess there is some Indian blood in me. I 
could smile at the stake. I can take scalps, too. I've 
a rabbit scalped now. I want to see its brain work." 

“You imp! You devil in disguise! why will you do 
these things?" 

“Oh, because, you softy, how do you suppose I'll find 
out things if I don’t try? I'll be a great man some day, 
17 


TWO VILLAGES. 


and maybe I’ll find out something that will cure that 
kid of yourn.” 

That night after the boy had gone, Elphaz, the wise 
man, bent over the form of his little sleeping son, his 
only companion, and the very heart of his existence. 

“Oh, that my little son, with his noble soul, might 
have but a fraction of the strength of that boy!” he 
groaned. . 

He little realized as he stood there in an agony of 
thought, that years hence, the boy he was helping with 
his sympathy and common sense, would be the means 
of causing his son to walk as other children walk. 



18 


THE BAD BOY . 


VII. 

THE BAD BOY. 

H E was the worst boy in the village. Every boy 
hated him, and all the dogs and cats fled at 
his approach. 

“That boy will come to a bad end if some one does 
not do something with him,” said the minister to the 
storekeeper. 

“He could become a first-rate business man if he 
could be made to care,” said Van Auld, thoughtfully. 

“I guess it will be his business to hang,” replied the 
minister. “He is the first boy I have ever seen in whom 
I am not interested.” 

“Well,” said the doctor, “I can stand anything else 
but this torturing business — there is enough pain in 
this world, God knows, without brutes in human dis- 
guise making more,” he added, as he threw away his 
cigar with a gesture of impatience and disgust. 

“You’re all agreed. The boy, according to common 
consent, is no good.” Elphaz, the wise man, poked the 
fire vigorously. 

“You call me the wise man; then listen to my wis- 
dom. All evil is but good gone mad. The waters of 
19 


TWO VILLAGES. 


a dangerous river can be made to serve man, if only 
properly confined and controlled. The cruelty in that 
boy’s make-up can be turned to good account, but there 
must be some one to love him, believe in him, and 
show him how to live. Pastor, you must love him, 
and Van Auld, you must show him how to live. I be- 
lieve in him.” 

However, it remained for the doctor to do the part 
allotted to the merchant. The doctor was preparing for 
a ride, when a sound caused him to take off his great- 
coat. It was the sound of hasty, burden-laden feet, 
which always spells danger to a doctor’s trained ear. 
It may be that he will hold a human life in his hands. 
Bill Hind’s leg was badly crushed. Delay meant the 
loss of the limb. The doctor’s first thought was to 
’phone fdr Elphaz. He then began to restore and pre- 
pare his patient. 

“Where is the minister?” said he, as Elphaz entered. 

“Out of town.” 

“God help us — I can’t do this with your help alone. 
Van Auld is no good. You know he can’t endure the 
sight off suffering and faints at the sight of blood.” 

“Out there is Sydney Lang, the bad boy. Doctor, I 
believe in him, trust him for my sake.” 

He was called in. Such a nurse was never before 
found in Newcastle. The doctor was astonished. There 
was the boy, cool, unmoved — but active and alert, 
strong in the scientific facts that the wise man had 
taught him. Bill Hind’s limb was saved and a great 
20 


THE BAD BOY . 


ambition was born in the heart of the boy. The doc- 
tor encouraged him, and the stone that was set roll- 
ing moved on. The minister, ashamed of his harsh 
criticism, was now a faithful ally of Elphaz, the wise 
man, and together they helped the boy with his books. 
Van Auld, with his strong sixth sense, almost solved 
the financial problem, all but five hundred dollars. Mrs. 
Darnsbrough, the stylish woman, met this difficulty by 
giving her check for the amount and going without a 
new winter coat. 

“Mr. Van Auld,” she said, “I thought when darling 
Alice died there was nothing else in life mattered, so 
I tried to smother my 'heart in satins and furs; but your 
talk today has taught me that there are others than our 
own. Perhaps God removes from our lives our dear- 
est idol, because we forget Him in our earthly adora- 
tion. I thank you, wise friend, for making me see 
myself in all my shallowness and selfishness.” 

Six years were numbered with the past, and Sydney 
Lang stood by the doctor’s sick bed. Life was to be 
spared to the patient physician but a little longer. He 
had healed others, he could not heal himself. He was 
going to join his love in Heaven, and had asked young 
Dr. Lang to take his place. 

“No, I couldn’t take your place,” replied the young 
doctor, with deep emotion. “I haven’t the patience. I 
could never endure a country doctor’s life. His petty 
trials are too numerous, his share of gratitude too 
small; surgery, not medicine, is what I’m fit for. I 
21 


TWO VILLAGES. 


shall go into a hospital and stay there. I want to be- 
come a great surgeon, not for fame or the money that 
is in it. I long to serve my fellow-men. I want to help 
other people as the people of Newcastle have helped 
me. You all had a part in it. I could not help seeing 
your patient service, doctor. The minister was a little 
hard on me sometimes, but the soul-love shone through 
his ofttimes bitter words. Miss Amy’s unselfish devo- 
tion made me ashamed to lead the life I had begun. 
Van Auld taught me how to secure an education and 
Mirs. Darnsbrough gave me the only financial assistance 
I received; but Elphaz, the wise man, helped me most 
of all, because he believed in me, made me love the 
useful and beautiful, and taught me to realize my own 
powers. He taught me that to be able to cause suffer- 
ing to others was no fault, but a quality to be desired, 
if love, not cruelty, prompted. The surgeon must cause 
the patient to suffer if he would ease the pain. I love 
you all, you who) have believed in me and shown me 
how to live.” 



22 


COVERTA. 





iCOVERTA. 


C REEPING along between its banks — high, rocky, 
barren — the mighty Snake — deep, treacherous, 
terrible — flowed on to the fair Columbia. On a 
tiny peninsula bounded east, west and north by this 
writhing river lay Coverta, a little Western village. 
Its streets were shaded with tall poplars, with here and 
there a graceful elm, which the people had tended and 
carefully watered. Its beautiful well-kept lawns were 
brightened with rare carnations, chrysanthemums and a 
great profusion of roses, perfect, luxuriant. 

Every home, every lawn, every street, spoke of end- 
less industry and care. The thoroughfare was lined 
with long grain-wagons, drawn by from four to ten 
horses. The river-warehouses groaned with their 
wealth of golden grain awaiting the coming of the 
river-steamers. High green hills lay between it and 
a country of fields, broad, fertile; while east, west, and 
north, bare blue hills kept out the winter’s cold— hills 
that turned to deepest purple, morn and eve. This 
was Coverta, a little obscure hamlet in Eastern Wash- 
ington. 

As I looked at the little town, my thoughts went 
25 


TWO VILLAGES. 


back a decade of years to Newcastle and the lessons 
I had learned, and I wondered if here, midst this busy 
life, any found time to bear another's burden or re- 
lieve another's pain. 



26 


THE FORESTER. 


I. 

THE FORESTER. 

4*\/OU’ RE burned pretty badly, Brown, but you 
jf will be all right in a week or two. We will 
soon have you back to v/ork, but you must 
not think of returning to your station under present 
conditions.” 

“Don’t baby me, Doc, but I’ll stay here a week or 
so if you say so. My flesh heals like a baby’s and 
my constitution is like India rubber.” 

“In a way you lead a very healthy life, being always 
in the open, but it would kill me. The loneliness must 
be something awful — and the long rides — they’re what 
takes the tuck out off me, all right.” 

“Why, Doc, a sixty-mile jaunt in the saddle is noth- 
ing for me. The more I ride the better I feel. By 
Jumbo, Doc, what’s that lingo you’re getting off about 
loneliness? I’m never lonely. I’ve got my woods, and 
there is my little friend the blue-jay. I can always 
visit with him. I’d a darned sight rather visit with 
him than the whining, complaining mortals that you 
are herded with. By the way, it was Master Blue Jay 
that decided me on being a forester. When I was a 
27 


TWO VILLAGES . 


little chap I made acquaintance with his birdship — a 
peculiarly saucy one of the tribe. I used to enjoy be- 
ing scolded by him. After a while my folks packed 
me off to school. I was deucedly lonesome, and I used 
to go out and sit on a log and moon. One day who 
should scold me but a blue-jay. After a while I went 
to college, and in a tree on the campus lived a blue-jay. 
I then went out on a hunting-trip to the forest — same 
blue-jay. Dear old blue-jay, how he does love the pine 
woods! I thought I would come out here and live with 
him. Doc, I tell you one thing: if you’ll just get down 
and get acquainted with the birds, and ants, and bees, 
and the little wild things of the forest and field, you’ll 
never be lonely. Everywhere you go you will find 
friends, and these wild creatures will learn to love you 
and come at your call.” 

“Yes, Brown, they do for some. Only a person who 
is perfectly pure and sincere can attract them, I’ve 
heard it said.” 

“Well, I trust I’m that. I don’t believe I’m what you 
call a sinner. I lead a white life, and aim to treat 
the world right. I make mistakes, God knows, but 
they are of the head, not o»f the heart. A man who 
leads a pure life oughtn’t to be called a sinner.” 

Dr. Deleplane smiled sadly, for he had seen too much 
of sin and its resulting misery, and battled so long 
with his own weaknesses, to fully agree with the 
forester. 

“When did you first notice the fire, Brown?” 

28 


THE FORESTER. 


“ ’Twas Thursday morning. I was standing on a 
Butte overlooking the Seven Devils. These snow- 
crowned beauties were especially attractive that morn- 
ing. Seven prettier mountains can’t be found any- 
where. A!! at once I heard a crackling of underbrush, 
and I saw deer fleeing to the south, then a bear, and 
the birds seemed to fly in great flocks, straight toward 
the Seven Devils. The air was unusually blue and 
seemed heavy and oppressive. I knew my call to duty 
had come. It was well that the deputy game-warden 
had stayed at my cabin the night before, and was even 
then within call. Ah, there was great work for me 
then ! and in an hour we had warned the ranchers, but 
not before the fire-brands were shooting among our 
trees. Our fire lines were at least thirty feet wide, but 
there was a strong wind blowing, and the brands were 
hurled high in the branches of the dead pines, which 
burned like tinder. The fire-fighters began to arrive, 
and by the Jumping Jinkins we did fight for an hour! 
Why, I picked up fire-brands and never knew that they 
hurt me. Just as we had about given up the fight, the 
wind turned, and we were saved. You ask me to tell 
you how we did it. How can I tell? I had no time 
to look around to see what others were doing, and I 
was that blamed excited I didn’t know what I was doing, 
myself. And if I had I never could spin a yarn smooth 
like some fellows. Better get some newspaper-man 
to write up a fire-fight for you. They ean do a better 
job than I can. I’d like to wring the necks of those 
29 


TWO VILLAGES. 


careless campers, who go off and leave their camp-fires 
uncovered. Do you suppose singed eyebrows will grow 
again? Not that I ought to care, for when I go back 
there will be nothing but bobcats to look at me. Oh, ! 
Lordie, yes, there are the blue-jays! They will sit on 
the branches and scream, ‘Ralph Brown, how ugly, how I 
ugly!’ Good-night, Doc, I’ll drop in and see Hal a bit.” 

The doctor smiled as the forester closed the door. 

“I just enjoy that fellow, so robust, so strong, plenty of 
self-confidence, power of description small, according 
to his tell. He is certainly long-winded enough, and 
makes up in quantity what he lacks in quality. He's a 
good fellow, brave and strong. You seldom see eyes 
of that deep violet shade, and when you do, set it down, 
their owner doesn’t handle much rubbish.” 



30 


THE NURSE . 


IL 

THE NURSE. 

T HEY called him Hal. His house they called 
“The Refuge”; and so it was, for the sick and 
broken were sheltered there for six long years. 
Broken — what other word describes it? They came 
from over the hills from the mines in the distant moun- 
tains, physical wrecks, victims of a premature blast, 
a cave-in or a gas explosion. 

Hal was a jolly, good-natured sort of a fellow, one 
of those persons who are always giving and never 
seeking a return — tall, blonde, handsome, with merry 
blue eyes, a friendly nature, kind and gracious. His 
was a soul pure and white, but very human. He 
sinned not, not because he could not, but because he 
would not. Here was a nature, strong to resist, strong 
to act, strong to accomplish. 

Six years before an unfortunate love affair had 
driven Hal Vernon to this secluded spot. He did not 
let this affair of the heart spoil his life. There were 
other things in life for him. Tonight he was lone- 
some, for he had but one patient, the civil engineer. 
31 


TWO VILLAGES. 


It was a pleasant surprise when the forester entered the 
room without knocking. 

“Hello, Hal, old fellow! It does a fellow good to 
see the twinkle of your bonnie blue eyes, and to catch 
the glint of your girlie, goldie locks, after having noth- 
ing but coyotes and rattlesnakes for company the past 
three months. Say, now, got De Vore here again, have 
you? Another Thunder Mountain cave-in?” 

“No, typhoid this time. He was up North on an 
irrigation ditch.” 

“Boss, there, I reckon.” 

“Naw, bossing is not in his line lately, too much 
booze for that kind of a job.” 

“Say, Hal, what a wreck that fellow has made of 
himself! They say he speaks and writes four lan- 
guages; live ones, besides all the dead ones. What 
became of his Spanish class the electrician got up for 
him?” 

“He was drunk so much that the boys got tired. His 
class in painting Mrs. Marlow chaperoned, went the 
same way — young ladies all quit. Did you ever see 
any of his work? That pastel of Lake Waha is 
exquisite.” 

“Say, Hal, I’ve often thought that De Vore was an 
old fool to come to this place to reform, with saloons 
as thick as honey-bees and temptation on every side. 
It is their way, though, these professors; when they 
have slopped over in the East, they make a straight 
streak for the West. Why, bless you, it doesn’t take 
32 


THE NURSE . 


long for such fellows as Coyote Bill or Whispering 
Willie to send them to perdition with fire-water. 

“Hal, that is why I love my life as a ranger. I 
don’t have to rub up against these fellows with their 
vices, their profanity, and their foul stories. I’m all 
alone there in the dear old forest, guarding the trees 
from harm. When I do run up against men they are 
helping me fight fire. They are helping me to save 
my trees and their homes. There is no time for sin- 
ning. It seems so queer to me that men want to de- 
ceive women, get drunk, swear and fight, and all that. 
I never want to. I hate such things. There’s not a bit 
of use in them.” 

“Well, you see, Brown, my boy, I’m different. I 
could see how a man could do all o<f them, the whole 
catalog of sins. I’ve had my fights with the tempter, 
boy, but I always come out on top. I’ve never done 
anything to be ashamed of. My life is an open book. 
Let him read who will. It’s the yielding that’s shame- 
ful. There is no use in it whatever. Why, I have 
nothing but contempt for the man who has yielded like 
De Vore!” 

“And yet, Hal, you care for him. I wouldn’t touch 
the brute.” 

“Yes, some unseen force draws me to help all those 
who suffer or have sinned. It is the love of soul, boy, 
it is the love of soul. You will never know what it 
means. The doctor does; he has it, too. That is why 
they come to me with their trials and temptations. 

33 


TWO VILLAGES. 


“The average Western minister is a failure, because 
he wraps the robe of his righteousness around him 
all too tight. Just like you, Ralph. If you are going 
to do anything out here, you’ve got to be a better 
mixer.” 

“Mixer, indeed. I’m no foreign missionary, Hal, I’m 
looking out for Ralph Brown. Good-by, old fellow. I’ll 
look up Solomon Davidson. They say what he doesn’t 
know about electricity isn’t worth knowing. His old dad 
before him knew a lot. Sol grew up on electricity, 
nursed it from the bottle, so to speak. Sol was an 
invalid when a child. Some big doctor back East cured 
him. They say Sol’s governor helped the doctor 
through school, or something off that sort. I hardly be- 
lieve that, though, for Sol told me himself, and they 
were very poor; and if it hadn’t been for the old 
man’s life insurance, he’d never got through college. 
Nevertheless, Sol’s a white fellow and he’s got brains.” 



34 


THE CIVIL ENGINEER. 


III. 

THE CIVIL ENGINEER. 

T HE nurse was tired out and discouraged, and he 
felt that he could bear up no longer. “What 
is the use to be kind and patient ?” he thought. 
“Why prolong the struggle with a man like De Vore?” 
For the second time Hal had pulled the engineer out 
of the jaws of death, and the ungrateful being had 
cursed him to his face. Mrs. Marlow had been kind 
to him, very kind, and he had called her a meddling 
old hypocrite. The doctor had done his level best, 
and De Vore had sneered and called him a quack. 
To be sure, the doctor wasn’t made of stuff that great 
men are made of, but he did his best, and had plenty 
of good, kind, common sense, and that counts for much 
with a doctor. So many in the village had tried to help 
De Vore, and to all he turned the same sour visage, 
except to the doctor’s little daughter, Ardis. The en- 
gineer always smiled when the child came into the 
room and talked to her o*f her dog and pony, and even 
went so far as to accept half a stick of candy she offered 
him. 

Hugo De Vore had been handsome, and was still not 
35 


TWO VILLAGES. 


ill-looking, though dissipation and bitterness had deeply 
lined his face. He had been an instructor in lan- 
guages in an Eastern college, a widely-traveled man, 
a social favorite, and an artist of some repute. He 
played the violin with rare expression. From the ruin 
wrought by drink and cocaine he had honestly tried to 
rise, studied engineering and come to Washington, 
where he was employed on some of the great construc- 
tion-works. He fell again and again, and at last, 
through drunken carelessness, was caught in a cave-in 
and badly hurt. Hal patched him up and sent him 
forth, only to battle with temptation again, and to fall 
lower, and lower, until he was a wreck, physically and 
morally, without a care to be otherwise. 

For this sad condition, De Vore blamed the world. 
According to his standard there was not an honest 
man nor a true woman in the world, and it was get- 
ting worse and worse every day. His was a nature ever 
willing to receive, but he gave nothing without hope 
of return — a nature incapable of sacrifice. 

Without sacrifice the soul cannot grow, but must ulti- 
mately perish. The nurse, for self-comfort, repeated 
to himself a sentence he had heard the electrician say: 
“My father used to say that there was good in every 
one, and that no soul was so pure that it was with- 
out spot or stain,” but then the electrician was a 
dreamer, an unpractical man, who had been petted in 
his boyhood, weak and suffering a big part of his life. 
Such a man was apt to be over-charitable for the fail- 
36 


THE CIVIL ENGINEER. 


ings of others and womanish about their sufferings. So 
thought Hal of the electrician. 



37 


TWO VILLAGES. 


IV. 

DOCTOR DELEPLANE. 

HE doctor had not learned to ride in his child- 



hood, and was as yet an indifferent horseman. 


m These two things a Western mountain doctor 
must be — a good surgeon and a good horseman. In 
addition to these qualifications, he must possess com- 
mon sense and enough knowledge to pass the difficult 
examinations of the West; he must be self-reliant and a 
good mixer. Dr. Deleplane was far from a good horse- 
man, and not exactly self-reliant. He possessed a good 
and pure, but not a strong nature. There were times 
when he longed, oh, how he longed for some strong 
arm to lean upon, for the counsel of some older or more 
skilled physician! 

He had traveled all day over a difficult trail, and, as 
toward evening he neared his destination, he was very 
weary. The longed-for rest was not for him, for he was 
soon bending over the cradle of a little child sick unto 
death. Twice already, the mother said, had the hand 
of death taken a little child from them. The doctor at- 
tributed its death to improper nursing, so all night 
without sleep or rest he tended the child. 


38 


DOCTOR DELEPLANE . 


The first five miles of the doctor’s home journey lay 
over a rocky trail, at most not over a foot wide, and 
in places there was no foothold except intertwined roots 
mixed with loose stones, and so steep that his tough 
little cayuse breathed hard as it made its ascent. On 
one side, far down below, was the swift Grande Ronde 
River, on the other Joseph Creek. That creek, on the 
banks of which, poor exiled Chief Joseph was wont to 
wander. 

The next stage of the doctor’s journey was over a 
level, treeless prairie, and was quickly accomplished; 
then came a stretch of deep pine forest, where the 
brush tore the rider’s clothes, and where fallen logs 
must be jumped by the nimble cayuse. The doctor 
saw ahead of him the welcome sight of the school- 
teacher’s cabin. 

Harriet Maynard was one of the many Western girls 
who live all alone on their claims, and earn the money 
for commuting by teaching the nearest district school. 
Two dogs and a cat kept her company. 

The weary horseman was in hopes of rest and re- 
freshment, but alas ! there was no response to his knock. 
Miss Maynard was not at home. Then came tempta- 
tion, and the doctor pulled a flask from his pocket and 
drank a deep draught, then resumed his journey. As 
he rode he mused, “I’m tired of this life; if it was to 
friends I ministered I wouldn’t mind. When I first 
started out in my profession, I thought I’d settle down 
in one place and serve the people. I’d see all the 
39 


TWO VILLAGES . 


babies grow up into men and women, and the young 
people would grow old with me. I’d have my friends 
and my enemies, too, as a matter of course; but I'd 
even be thankful for an enemy that would stick to 
me. It is changing, changing, all the time. It is one 
set of people this year and another next. Like as 
not I will never see again the child I saved last night. 
I have scarcely a patient I had ten years ago. There 
are no nurses who will go to the mountains, no hospital 
but Hal's in Goverta, and how can women and children 
be taken there? There are some too sick to be taken 
over these rocks and through these woods. Oh, for 
some one to advise me, some one to lean upon ! Would 
God that I could lie down here in the forest, but for 
wife and Ardis. Ah, yes, and Goverta. I'm the only 
one to tend the sick in Goverta and all this wilderness. 
I'm very faint: just one more drink. How it braces 
me! I’m out of the woods now and there is only the 
hill to descend, fifteen hundred feet." 

He paused awhile on that bleak hillside and looked 
at Goverta, set like some rare green emerald in a wall 
of grey. Goverta was a patchwork of green and white, 
dotted with homes. As he descended to the outskirts 
of the village the air grew heavy with the perfume of 
roses and the song of a multitude of birds was wafted 
to the tired doctor’s ears. It had been raining and the 
sun was shining brightly. A faint blue mist arose from 
the river that encircled Goverta like a green-blue band, 
and all around the hills of dark, hazy blue, like huge 
40 


DOCTOR DELEPLANE . 


blocks of amethyst, and over all stretched the rainbow, 
promise of God. 

A few more pulls at the flask, and when Dr. Dele- 
plane reached home, from force of habit, he relieved 
his pony of its bridle and saddle, then dropped in a 
drunken stupor on the grass. 



41 


TWO VILLAGES. 


V. 

THE SCHOOL-TEACHER. 

U T T OW sound the dogs sleep! I wish they would 
awake and keep me company. This is 
one of the nights that thoughts of Hal 
Vernon haunt me. Six years is a long time; one 
ought to forget in six years; but hearts are queer 
things. When one has schooled herself not to care, and 
has indeed quite forgotten, and one’s little romance 
seems like a subconscious dream, this obstinate, unruly 
heart will play such a strange trick; and it all comes 
back, my dear little love-dream. Hal seems standing 
just as he used to do under the hackberry tree on the 
dear home lawn. I am sitting on the old rustic seat, 
thrumming my guitar, and my love is speaking to me, 
repeating those time-worn phrases lovers have repeated 
since the world began. I thought him so handsome and 
gay in his careless grace! All at once he grew sad and 
began to speak of sad things — of sorrow, disappoint- 
ment and death. I did not want to hear of sadness, 
for I was so happy; ah, so happy! I wonder if all 
women who love and are loved are as happy as I was 
that night? 


42 


THE SCHOOL-TEACHER. 


“ 'Hal, please don’t,’ I said, ‘quit talking, and sing 
something if you can’t talk nice.’ Then he sang that 
old song, ‘The Lost Chord’. At first his voice was 
full and clear, then as he neared the close, it ended in 
a broken sob. ‘Forgive me, little girl,’ he said, ‘some- 
thing tells me we must soon part. A dark cloud seems 
hanging over my head, and it seems about to burst. 
I know not what this fear means. It seems ever at 
my side. Good-night, little one, good-night.’ 

“Then came misunderstanding: so slight a thing I 
never could blame myself. It was Hal’s cowardice. He 
was everything a man ought to be, but for that streak 
of cowardice that ran through his nature. Somehow 
every man I meet seems so commonplace beside Hal. 

“Now, there is Solomon Davidson I met at college. 
W'hat a nice fellow he was! and friendly to me. I’m 
glad he never fell in love with me. I shouldn’t want 
to wound him. That’s the advantage of being a plain 
little wren like me. 

“Just to think that Davidson has a job at the electric 
light plant at Coverta! When I go down to commute 
next month I want to see him. Davidson always did 
entertain me, and he has helped me in school. The 
story of how he was cured of his lameness is just like 
a fairy tale. 

“Just to think of his father: a very wise man, so wise 
that the children called him Elphaz, the wise man — be- 
ing kind to a seemingly degenerate boy, to whom no 
one spoke kindly but the minister’s wife, and then that 

43 , 


TWO VILLAGES . 


boy becoming a great physician and healing Solomon! 
Oh, Puck and Towser, do wake up, you dear dogs, and 
let me tell you that every time I get discouraged with 
a bad, unruly boy in school I think of what Elphaz, the 
wise man, did. 

“I wonder where Hal is to-night? I wonder if he is 
alive? I wonder if he knows where I am, or if he 
cares whether I am alive. He has brought joy and 
sorrow into my life — joy and sorrow — those two great 
teachers of the human race. Without him my life 
would not have been complete. One cannot come in 
touch with a large soul without being a different per- 
son than they were before meeting. His influence will 
go with me all through life. Think of him I some- 
times shall. Grieve for him I will not. Yet I am 
changed, and I would not have it otherwise. * * * 

Now, then, Harriet Maynard, you have been calling up 
the spirit of Hal Vernon again — a nice thing for a 
self-respecting girl to do anyway, isn’t it? Now, let 
me see if I am all right for the night. Towser, old 
doggie, you must go out and stay with the horse; Puck, 
you lie down by the bed. Pedro, you sleepy cat, curl 
up on the bed. 

‘Til see that my gun is all right. I’m glad I’m a 
first-rate shot. I feel timid to-night. I’m so glad that 
there is only a month more of this, and then I’ll go 
back to civilization. Oh, sometimes I think I can’t 
wait. I’m so lonesome. If it weren’t for the dear 
dogs and my little school I don’t know how I’d stand it.” 

44 


THE DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER. 


VI. 

THE DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER. 

G AY little sprite Ardis, spirit of the West, with 
eyes grey, frank, boyish; with locks like un- 
washed gold, framing a round, chubby face! 
Ardis was the product of the West. Ten years had 
the Chinook winds tanned her cheeks to a ruddy brown. 
Here was no fairy, lily child, but rather one like some 
brilliant poppy or marigold. Ever her merry laugh 
rang out, as she performed circus tricks on the back 
of her little grey pony, or romped with Booster, her 
dog. 

She was the pet of the village, and she called every 
one her friend. She represented the spirit of the 
West. The far West does not ask, “Who were you?” 
“What have you got?” but, “Who are you?” It asks 
not, “Was your grandfather respectable?” but “Are you 
respectable?” Not, “Are you proud of your ances- 
tors?” but, “Will your descendants be proud of you?” 
Democracy showed in the child’s every look, every sen- 
tence, and in the way she breathed the air into her stout 
little lungs. 


45 


TWO VILLAGES . 


Ardis’s mother was away for the day, and the little 
girl was lonesome: so she mounted her pony and started 
to meet her father. 

Just at sundown Coverta missed her. Her father still 
lay in a drunken slumber and could not be aroused, 
so Hal asked the electrician to stay with De Vore, 
while he, the sheriff and the forester went out to 
look for the child. Ere the three men had set out on 
their journey they were joined by a fourth — none other 
than De Vore himself: who had arisen from his bed, 
dressed, and insisted on accompanying them. Hal's 
pleadings and threatenings were of no avail; so the en- 
gineer was mounted on Mrs. Marlow’s fine Arabian 
horse, gentle as a kitten, easy-gaited, and strong in 
endurance. 

For the first time in his life, a feeling akin to admira- 
tion for the engineer filled the 'forester’s heart, as he 
beheld the proud military bearing and graceful form 
of the man. With gentle, cradle-like motion, the 
mare, Ramona, bore the half-dead body up the steep 
grade into the forest, into a ravine, where gurgled 
a beautiful stream. In the ravine they found little 
Ardis asleep and the pony quietly grazing. The 
light of the early moon lit up the child’s tear-stained 
face. The engineer told how he and an Indian had 
blazed the trail a few weeks before, that they might 
be able to again readily find the spring. “I thought 
of this,” he said, “and I knew that I must come. She 
is the only friend I have, and the rest of you have only 
46 


THE DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER . 


condescended to be kind to me, and I’m the equal of 
any man.” 

It was the last words he ever spoke, for he fell dead 
from his horse into the forester's arms. 

Tenderly, they bore him to the teacher’s cabin. Hal, 
being a poor rider, was left behind. The sheriff, the 
forester and Ardis went to town for aid. 

They buried him, and Coverta paid a loving and 
costly tribute to his memory. The cowboys came from 
the ranches and the miners from the mines; and the 
people of Coverta came with their offerings, and gave 
them to the nurse to expend. They gave as the West- 
ern man gives — lavishly, freely, ungrudgingly. Nights 
spent in the open, sleeping, with only the stars to watch, 
deepen the heart and expand the soul. 

The minister took for his text, “Greater love hath n^ 
man than this, that a man lay down his life for hi? 
friend,” and the nurse, in his magnificent tenor, sang 
that beautiful solo, “Though your sins be as scarlet, 
they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like 
crimson, they shall be as wool.” Led by Ardis, twelve 
little maidens went before the casket-bearers and scat- 
tered pure, white roses all the way to the grave. In a 
private vault they laid him, Mr. Marlow’s, the richest 
man in the village. 

The forester sighed as he said, “Perhaps he had a 
great deal to forgive, poor fellow, and he felt hard 
toward God on account of it. Why couldn’t he forgive 
his Creator even as Christ forgave him?” 

47 


TWO VILLAGES . 


Maybe,” said the nurse, “he couldn’t forgive him 
self for the wrong he had done others. It is sometimes 
easier to forgive others than it is to forgive ourselves. 
Did you ever know of a case like that?” 

“No, Hal, I don’t think I do.” 

“I have. I’ve lived it. I’ve done it. You know 
Harriet Maynard, the school-teacher, at whose cabin 
we stopped with De Vore? We were old friends, lovers, 
and are still. I did not know that she was out here, nor 
did she know that I was here. We parted six years 
ago. I was angry because she pretended she was not 
at home when she was. The next day she wrote me a 
pretty note, asking me to visit her sick brother, but I 
paid no attention to it for two weeks, thinking to 
punish her. When at last I called, I learned that her 
brother had become violently insane and was taken to 
the hospital the evening I had received Harriet’s note. 
They had needed my help. My love had seemed of so 
poor a quality that it was unable to stand disgrace. 
Harriet was not there and I did not make a return call. 
I was too proud. I brooded over it for days. I never 
slept a bit for a week, but still I would not yield. When 
I came out here I was too proud to write. Over the 
cold form of De Vore we made it all up. She had for- 
given me long ago. In fact she had understood my 
nature better than I did myself and was not surprised 
at my action. I never could forgive myself, nor do I 
now. I am gwg East next month to finish my medical 
48 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


education. Harriet will then commute on her claim. 
I’m not going alone, you see.” 

“I congratulate you, old boy, though you did make 
an ass of yourself. I wouldn’t have thought it of you, 
but 'All’s well that ends well’. You are built for love 
and home; but as for me, give me the hills and the 
forests and the free, untamed life of the plains. Old 
fellow, I must thank you for that song. It was meant 
for me. Self-righteousness is a very scarlet sin.” 

“I sang it for myself, Brown, for cowardice is a 
crimson sin. Poor De Vore, he wasn’t brave enough 
to live, but he was brave enough to die. I’m a coward, 
through and through.” 



49 


TWO VILLAGES. 


VII. 

THE MINER’S WIFE. 

I N the most beautiful of Coverta’s homes lived Mar- 
vin Marlow, the miner, unimportant in himself, 
save that he had made a lucky strike. All the 
love of his family and all the love and reverence of the 
village centered around his lovely wife. 

Mrs. Marlow was a woman past sixty, of slight and 
delicate build, and not strong. She was of that rare 
type, who in youth possess no extraordinary beauty or 
charm, but who grow from year to year in loveliness. 
Time had not faded the dark brown eyes. Her hair was 
still abundant, though white as snow. Her skin rivaled 
the lily, and on her brow time had written no message, 
save the story of a life of content, of self-sacrifice, 
patience, and purity, and love. Not of her love alone, 
but of her wealth, she freely gave. Oh, the sick she 
had helped; the young people she had sent to college; 
the latent talent her wealth had developed; the many 
happy marriages she had made possible! How she had 
helped beautify the village; how Coverta loved this 
silver-haired woman, always gowned in silver-grey! 

50 


THE MINER’S WIFE . 


A Sabbath hush lay on the village, and the children 
ceased to play in the streets as the groups of men 
and women in silence waited for the news. Somehow 
in a village everybody knows and everybody cares; 
there is no stranger in the midst. The miner’s wife lay 
sick unto death. They had taken her to Hal’s little 
hospital. While racing with another horse, Ramona, 
with swallow-like swiftness, had passed under a bridge, 
and neither horse nor rider had realized how low the 
structure. The terrible had happened — a fractured 
skull. Only a miracle could save the beloved life. 
The electrician had told of a great Eastern surgeon 
who had caused him to walk, he who had been lame 
from his birth. The great man came to this little 
out-of-the-way corner of the earth on an errand of 
mercy, but for a price enormous, fabulous; but what 
mattered the cost? for here was a woman rich indeed; 
for her, earth gave up her long-hidden treasures; and 
many in Coverta would have gladly given of their 
wealth if it had been needed to restore to health the 
most beloved of Goverta’s women. 

The miracle had been performed, and Mrs. Marlow 
was resting quietly. Hal had gone out to give the 
word to the people. 

“You, too, are an Eastern man,” said the surgeon 
to Dr. Deleplane. 

“Yes, I came here ten years ago from Cleveland, 
Ohio.” 

“Why, I was born and raised about fifty miles from 

51 


TWO VILLAGES. 


there, in a little village called Newcastle. I don’t sup- 
pose you ever heard of the place.” 

“No, I do not now recall such a place. My memory 
is very faulty.” 

“It is just a little mite of a place, not even honored 
with a position on the map; not a bit of Paradise like 
this. It is very dear to me, however, and in my heart 
is a very tender place for its people.” 

And because of the wise man’s wisdom and the help- 
fulness of the wise man’s son, the poor, over-worked, 
unknown Western practitioner clasped hands with the 
bad boy of Newcastle in the little obscure hospital in 
the blue mountains of Washington. 



521 







NOV 22 1911 


























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